


As Only Dogs Know How To Be Happy

by LordJixis



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Euthanasia, M/M, no happy ending, of someone who was already dying, through pills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 18:43:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15646677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordJixis/pseuds/LordJixis
Summary: There are a million ways this could've gone better, and not a single one of them matters now.





	As Only Dogs Know How To Be Happy

**Author's Note:**

> You see the tag that says angst? Respect it. The warning that says major character death? That's literally all this fic is about. Turn back now if you don't want a half-cocked, cried on first draft. There's nothing in the way of true romance here either, so turn back now if that's your schtick.

 

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,

and we don't now and never did lie to each other.

So now he's gone and I buried him,

and that's all there is to it.

 

\- Pablo Neruda, A Dog Has Died

 

* * *

He's not so much sad as he is resigned, though neither is a good look. There's not much going for him, especially not as far as looks go, but his smile and the small spark at the corner of his eye are the few things that catch attention. He doubts he'll have either of them now, at least, not for much longer.

The doctor is passably pretty, lines around her eyes speaking of a life much better than this, filled with much more than explaining to a young man that he was dying. She speaks more, _options_ , and _treatments_ but he knows this, knows how it works, and he isn't the least bit surprised when she tacks on _years of in-patient care_ and _small chance of long term success_.

Joly would tell him it's the better option, but Joly isn't here for a reason. He shakes her hand and smiles like he means it and is very, very polite about saying that he'd rather live his last few months in peace. She nods. In another life, he'd like to have known her.

It's bitterly cold outside. He walks the whole way home anyway, looking at the mist pool from his mouth and didn't think of any stupid metaphors for it, didn't think of it as proof that he was living or anything so profound or pretentious. It was water vapor. It was nothing.

He bought a pack of cigarettes. Not much use in quitting, now.

He thinks he relates better with the clouds of chemicals he exhales.

* * *

There's not much he wants to do, as it turns out. He'd had dreams, of course – what young person didn't have dreams – but they seemed far away now. _Months_. What could one do in less than 150 days? Maybe he'd paint something passable. Maybe he'd make some amends.

Mostly he thinks he'll stare at Enjolras' pretty hair.

It's not bad, to pass the time. He has an excuse to stare, with Enjolras standing at the front like always, commanding attention with the steady rise and fall of his voice. It's effortless. It's beautiful. Grantaire had a lot of dreams, once – seeing the world; stealing the colors from it and smattering them on a canvas; plucking it's melodies from the air with his guitar – but they've all been washed away by that silky smooth baritone.

There's nothing he wants more in his last days than everything he'd had before them.

* * *

He doesn't tell anyone until it starts to be hard to balance when he's barely on his third drink. He hadn't really thought of who to tell – wasn't it generally family, in these situations? So he thinks of who's closest to family and finds himself on Eponine's couch.

She slaps him. He's only surprised for a second.

There's a lot of accusations, a lot of cursing. He smiles at her and wonders how close it comes to his old one, the lopsided tilt that had lured so many lovely things into his bed.

“Don't tell anyone.” He whispers it, nearly. She looks at him with her beautiful eyes, and he's seen her cry once and would much rather it stay that way, so he regrets the words immediately when tears overflow.

“How can you – how could I –“

“It's better. I'm terrible at goodbyes. Everyone is, really. I just thought – well, my balance is going.” He grins down at his legs, the useless traitors. “I just needed – I didn't want to stop my life. Stop going out to bars, stop coming to meetings.”

“You needed someone to cover for you, so you chose the best liar.” And she sounds angry even as she melds her body to his, fills up all the cracks where his joints don't quite fit.

“No, I needed someone to support me.” The ceiling is cracked in the corners. He feels a sort of brotherhood with it. “So I chose the best family.”

She's weeping, openly, and it takes a while for him to realize he is too.

* * *

Enjolras stalks up to him. He resembles nothing so much an angry cat most days, but never so much as when he's embarrassed. And then he asks him out, and it's simultaneously the best and worst thing that's ever happened to him.

He stares for a moment too long and Enjolras is backtracking furiously, stumbling over his words in a way Grantaire has never seen, and he does the least (most) selfish thing in his life. “I'm honored, really. I'd love to – but it's a bad time in my life right now. Let me get much shit together and then we can try, yeah?” He couldn't bring himself to outright deny him. He should've, but the words choked him, lodged like dry swallowed pills.

And Enjolras smiled, and it wasn't blinding but it was there, and Grantaire thought that if he'd seen that smile sooner he might've had a different opinion on the slow starched agony of hospital care.

But he never could've put Enjolras through that, so he puts those feelings in a box and puts the box in a cold part of his mind and promises himself to not touch. And with the help of alcohol, he even keeps that promise.

* * *

Eponine hugs him more and it's only slightly because of sentimentality.

He gets woozy when he stands too fast. He gets headaches every day.

* * *

_I think you're rather brilliant._ The words on the page don't blur so much as they fade into a gray, squiggled mess. _I think I'm in love with you._ Was that unfair? That was probably unfair. He crosses out the words and looks into the middle distance and tries very hard to block out the sharp, constant pain that curls into his consciousness. It's not like he has any practice with this sort of thing, but notes were traditional. What did you even write in them, though? Platitudes? Confessions? It all seemed tear-inducing, but he didn't want to leave them with nothing.

He'd start with an easier one, then.

_To Bossuet,_

_You are the luckiest unlucky man I know...._

* * *

He thinks if he puts it off any longer, he won't be able to write any sense at all.

* * *

_I thought I'd go my entire life uninterested in it and anything entailed within. It was all grayscale; an entirely flat world, and then you were there so suddenly it was like waking up above water after drowning for years. It was like my very first glimpse of sunlight. It was like the gods had come and blessed me for one, lovely second._

_You are everything that inspires me. You are anything I've ever worshiped._

_It hurt so much to turn you down that day that if I wasn't already dying, I think I would've just from that. I'd wish a hundred opportunities on us, but my wishes have never counted for much. Instead I'll ask that you take part in all the treacherous, wonderful aspects of life. You're going to be great, love. It flows from your pores. It swirls in your eyes. Everyone can see it._

_You are all I believe in, Enjolras._

_So since I can't be there to do it, believe in yourself._

* * *

He thinks it doesn't make any sense anyway. He should've written sonnets for Enjolras back when he could hold a pencil without shaking, when his mind still flicked through thoughts like the crack of a whip.

* * *

The pain is unbearable. He takes the pills like a shot, like the only way he knows how. He sorts his letters and stares at the ceiling and reminds himself not to be selfish. No one should have to watch him die. Being alone in these last moments is nothing to spare his friends the pain.

He tries to spare them the shock as well, digging out his phone with fingers already heavy and numb, and dials.

_9...1..._

* * *

 The meeting is silent. Enjolras looks around at his friends, and finds, in a terrible turn of events, that he's speechless.

He calls it to a close without ever starting. He doesn't crumple the paper in his hand through sheer willpower, though there are crescent cuts on the opposite palm.

He'd like to feel betrayed. He'd like to feel angry.

 

He finds he feels a deafening hollowness, instead.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I love this fandom. this is my favorite fandom. I have about a dozen half-written stories for it, ranging from vamp!jolras magical AU to subjolras kink fic to a magi AU.
> 
> And yet the first thing i post is something i wrote in thirty minutes. 
> 
> If you ever see my other stories, please don't judge them based on this... whatever.
> 
> <3


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